Dr. Bennett delivered the news in what he hoped was a cheerful tone.
Inside, he was already calculating the distance to the door.
"Married?" The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Kellan's gaze settled on him like the flat end of a blade.
Dr. Bennett felt every drop of blood in his body make a collective decision to relocate.
"Your mother arranged it personally," he said, choosing his words with surgical care. "She wanted… well. An heir. And the young lady is lovely—very clean, very genuine. I think you'd find her—"
"Clean." Kellan repeated the word like it had offended him. "She married a man who'd been in a coma for three years and might never wake up. What exactly is she after?"
"The Scott family name, presumably. The resources—"
"Obviously." His voice was flat. "What else does anyone want from us?"
Dr. Bennett wisely said nothing.
Kellan looked down at the red pajamas he was wearing.
Then, slowly, he raised one hand and touched his lower lip.
Something was wrong with it. A small tear on the inside—not a bite. The position was too precise, too delicate for that.
He had been unconscious.
He hadn't bitten himself.
The only remaining explanation settled in his chest like a stone dropped into still water.
Kellan Scott was not a man who lost control of his expression. But the quiet that came over his face then was something different from composure. It was the particular stillness of a man experiencing a rare and consuming fury and choosing not to move.
Dr. Bennett set the laptop on the table and plugged it in with exaggerated focus.
"Last night," Kellan said, voice perfectly even, "that woman was in this room with me."
"Yes."
"All night."
"She—yes. She fell asleep here."
A beat.
"Did you feel anything last night, Kellan?" Dr. Bennett asked, in the tone of a man making a choice he already regretted. "At all?"
The look he received in response answered that question and several others.
So. He had felt something—and had no memory of it, which was in some ways considerably worse.
"Your brainwave activity last night was extraordinary," Dr. Bennett said carefully. "Stronger than anything we'd recorded in three years. This morning it was even higher. I genuinely thought you'd wake during the night."
Kellan turned away from him and stared at the ceiling.
An unprecedented humiliation had taken up residence somewhere behind his sternum, and it had no intention of leaving.
She had done that to him. While he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't stop her.
*How dare she.*
He reached over and opened the laptop.
The screensaver loaded.
A girl in a white dress stood on a cliff overlooking a blue sea, a sunflower held loosely in one hand, her face turned slightly away from the camera. Her hair moved in the wind. The light caught the edges of her.
Kellan's gaze stayed on the image for three seconds longer than it needed to.
Dr. Bennett opened his mouth.
Kellan didn't ask. Dr. Bennett closed it again.
An hour later, Kellan shut the laptop.
He lay back against the pillow, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with just waking from a coma.
The Scott Group's situation was worse than he'd feared. His suspended projects alone had caused losses in the billions. The capital chain was fraying at multiple points. If nothing changed within six months, they would be in serious danger.
Three years.
Three years, and the wolves had been quietly circling.
His head throbbed. He closed his eyes.
"I've made arrangements," Dr. Bennett said from across the room. "From today, only Roland and I—and your wife—can access this room. Everyone else is restricted."
"When did I acknowledge her as my wife?" Kellan's voice was still quiet, still controlled. "And why would I allow her anywhere near me? She is not to return to this facility."
Dr. Bennett, to his credit, did not flinch.
"If she doesn't come," he said carefully, "we'll have a difficult time explaining why your usual routine has changed. Anyone watching will notice. Your waking up needs to stay quiet—you said so yourself."
Kellan said nothing.
He was doing the math. Dr. Bennett could see it.
His current physical condition was not fit for any kind of confrontation. His legs were unresponsive. His arms had barely lifted. If word got out that he was awake in this state—vulnerable, immobile—the people who had put him here would move fast.
He couldn't afford that.
"She can come," Kellan said at last. "Install a camera by the bed."
"That's… a bit—"
"Tell her it's for medical monitoring."
Dr. Bennett pressed his lips together and said nothing.
"You should also know," he added after a moment, "why she agreed to this arrangement. Her mother is critically ill. Your mother negotiated with her—if she becomes pregnant with your child, the Scott family will arrange the surgery and cover all costs. She had no other options. She's not a calculating person."
Kellan looked at him.
"The life and death of her family has nothing to do with me." His voice didn't rise. It never did. "And desperation does not make what she did acceptable."
Dr. Bennett didn't argue.
He just quietly decided to position the camera somewhere slightly less hostile than directly over the bed, and left it at that.
Emily stayed at the hospital until dinnertime.
After the morning's crisis, the floor nurses had placed her mother on a quiet watch—gentle but constant—and the attending physician had stopped by twice without being asked. Her mother would be safe tonight.
Emily took a taxi instead of calling Roland. She needed the quiet.
Half an hour later, she stood on the pavement outside a gleaming twenty-story office building, its windows blazing with light even at this hour. Richard's empire. Still growing. Still thriving.
She took out her phone, propped it against the lamppost at the angle she needed, and held her ID card up to the camera.
"My name is Emily Carter. My ID number is—" She read it out clearly. "I am reporting my father, Richard Carter, by name, for financial misconduct and bribery."
She kept recording until she had said everything that needed to be said. Then she uploaded it—not to her own account, but to her best friend's. Ten million followers. It would reach the right people.
The phone rang before she'd even put it away.
"Emily! Was that you? Did you post that?!"
"I did. Sorry for not warning you—I figured your reach would be wider."
"I don't care about that! I'm asking because—Emily, is Richard Carter actually your father? *The* Richard Carter?"
"Yes."
A long silence on the other end.
"What kind of story is this," her friend finally said. "Am I your best friend or am I your best friend?"
Emily laughed. It came out surprised, which was almost better than if she'd planned it.
"You are absolutely my best friend."
"I'm booking a flight—"
"Don't. I have it handled."
"Emily—"
"If I need you, you're the first call I make. I promise."
A pause. Then, softer: "Don't carry this alone."
"I know." Emily looked up at the building one last time. "I know."
She hung up, flagged down a cab, and headed back.
Whatever Richard was going to do next—let him do it.
She was done waiting for permission to fight back.